Mr. Brooks DVDReview

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This serial killer thriller is a DVD disappointment.

By Todd Gilchrist and Brandon Ciampaglia

Why does Hollywood keep making serial killer movies? Are we getting any closer to truly revealing or understanding the scarred psyches of these troubled individuals? And if we are, does it really matter if no one is interested -- artistically, at least -- in seeing what they are like?

If we're to judge by the genre's box office revenues, the answer is no. Of the 40-plus serial killer movies released since 1980 (not counting straight-to-video or made-for-TV fare), only three have earned more than $100 million domestically: Silence of the Lambs, Se7en, and Hannibal. Meanwhile, the majority of these films are reheated iterations of the "popular" ones (read: ones featuring Hannibal Lecter) that offer nothing more than cheap thrills and shallow insights, if any at all.

Naturally, there are exceptions to this inauspicious rule, either by accident or design. American Psycho was an adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis' scathing deconstruction of '80s corporate values; The Cell was if nothing else a spectacular visual odyssey that attempted to capture the twisted labyrinth of a serial killer's mind. And Zodiac was director David Fincher's effort to both create a realistic prism for serial killer sensationalism (a la All the President's Men's chronicle of journeyman reporters) and destroy the genre he helped popularize.

Mr. Brooks, the latest entry in this interminable genre, is unfortunately no exception to any rule -- of serial killer movies or any kind for that matter. Rather, it's a film that's too clever by half, a cat-and-mouse thriller where neither knows the other exists, and where the cheese (or maybe the catnip) is made mostly of red herring. Written and directed by Bruce A. Evans, whose credits as screenwriter for Cutthroat Island and director for Kuffs were overlooked in the film's press notes, Mr. Brooks is a generic and generally uninspired film that adds nothing to the serial killer canon except a few more numbers to the collective body count.

According to the film's tagline, "There's something about Mr. Brooks." That thing is the fact that he's boring. Other than his alter ego as The Thumbprint Killer, Mr. Brooks (Kevin Costner) drinks milk and maintains a life of blissful domestic routine with his wife Emma (Marg Helgenberger). After coming out of self-imposed retirement for one more murder -- thanks to the seductive insistence of his enabling "conscience," Marshall (William Hurt) -- Mr. Brooks finds himself unwittingly in the spotlight when a peeping tom photographer (Dane Cook) catches him in the act. &#Array;&#Array;

The shutterbug, dubbed Mr. Smith by Brooks, intends to blackmail him for a most unusual purpose: Mr. Smith wants to learn how to kill, and figures The Thumbprint Killer for an expert teacher. But when Brooks' daughter Jane (Danielle Panabaker) comes home from college under mysterious (and possibly murderous) circumstances, the Serial Killer of the Year must confront the repercussions of his alternate lifestyle and decide how to evade capture without ruining his reputation, much less the lives of his loved ones.

Admittedly, splitting Mr. Brooks' psyche into two literal characters is a novel move; "hearing voices" is second only to the "beaten as a child" flashback as motivation for somebody to be a movie monster, so creating an onscreen sparring match between two actors, much less Costner and the always interesting Hurt, changes the visual and conceptual dynamic of his mental illness. But Costner's character seems only vaguely reluctant to kill again, with or without prompting from Marshall, and there is precious little chemistry between the two to coerce this otherwise upstanding member of the community into becoming a murderous madman.

Costner seems content to challenge the audience perception that he has almost always played wholesome, sincere characters, even when they're criminals or crooks, but is either unwilling to or incapable of creating more substantial depth in Mr. Brooks. It's as if the conceptual complexity of the role was enough for him to sign on, ironically creating an insincere performance of a character who requires a real degree of emotional turmoil -- and unfortunately, the kind of turmoil that the historically stoic actor does not effortlessly convey.

Meanwhile, Hurt obviously relishes his role as Marshall, Mr. Brooks' dark side, but there is little seduction either in his demeanor or his language to give him the substance to sustain even an imaginary character. Stiffly scripted by Evans and co-writer Raynold Gideon, Hurt tries his best to be playful with the character's machinations, but can't find a direction to take him. Is he a devilish manipulator, a domineering brute, or a cavalier co-conspirator? Any one of these options might be credible as a motivating force for Brooks, but even Hurt is out of his element trying to cement connections between the two.

Additionally, Cook is passable as Mr. Smith, if also working overtime to earn credibility as a dramatic actor, and Demi Moore overemphasizes her rough-hewn independence as Tracy Atwood, the detective pursuing Brooks without quite realizing it. But in both cases, as with Brooks and Marshall, the roles are written far too thinly to create any real feeling or connection, either between one another or with the audience, leaving the story too light on emotional heft to even suggest an intimate or interesting portrait of serial killer psychology.

Overall, Mr. Brooks feels like a screenwriting exercise for aspiring writers that somehow ended up on a studio chief's desk: Come up with the most unlikable character one can imagine, and then try to find a way to generate sympathy for him. By the end of the film, who cares whether Brooks is caught or killed or goes free? Is there a vicarious thrill audiences are supposed to derive from Smith's dream of killing the motorist who cut him off in traffic? Should we feel a sense of relief if Atwood's personal and professional problems are summarily resolved? And finally, are there any greater insights to be drawn from this rehash of serial killer clichés?

Having seen more than half of the movies on the list mentioned above, I can answer only the last of those questions with any certainty -- and it's a resounding no. Ultimately, Mr. Brooks is a little bit like one of the murders in an actual serial killer case: an object of passing fascination for most people who see the broad strokes or statistics, but of lasting or more profound impact only to those affected by or directly involved with the murderer, or in this case, the writer-director.